Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Stupid Flatmate: A Crackfic
by The Brunette Weasley
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes returns from the dead, nothing goes according to plan. When John refuses to speak to him, Sherlock is forced to resort to Plan B. Within a few days of his return, Sherlock finds himself sharing a flat with none other than Anderson himself in an attempt to make John jealous. Will the detective's plan work? Join Sherlock in his most harrowing adventure yet!
1. Prologue: Reichenback

**SO. This is a crackfic! I originally posted it on my ig fan account, _sherlawked_, but at popular request I have decided to post it on here. Please inform me of any typos I may have made!**

**Warnings: Contains slight innuendo, much Johnlock (nothing explicit, check the rating), and all things cracky.**

PROLOGUE

He was running. Not because he had to, or even because he was being pursued. He was running simply because he felt BAMFy and he knew that he looked cool when he ran—hair flowing in magnificent waves, his trench coat billowing out behind him in a fashion reminiscent of Severus Snape's robes (not that he resembled Alan Rickman in any way, shape, or sound).

After all, wasn't that how most action thingies started off? Some mysterious and/or attractive character, usually wearing a billowing trench coat much like his own, running through a network of filthy alleyways and constantly breathing loudly and looking over his shoulder every once in a while?

Luckily, all of the above applied to Sherlock Holmes. Especially the attractive part. With hair as black as a black crayon, eyes the color of some bluey-greeney thingy of the sort you would see shortly after consuming a hallucinogen, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut through the doors of the TARDIS, he was able to attract the attention of bloggers and ex-army doctors alike.

He was in London. Finally, after more than two years, he was back. He hadn't meant to stay away for so long, but…well. It didn't really matter anymore. Things were going to be different now.

His face broke into a rare grin—the sort that would cause the ovaries of any fangirl or fanboy to spontaneously combust into a million pieces—and he chuckled to himself.

"Sherlock Holmes is #Reichenback, baby!"


	2. Chapter One: The Office

CHAPTER ONE

John Watson stood beside the flower-adorned grave of his presumably dead best friend, his mournstache quivering with emotion and his trademark "hurt hedgehog look" plastered across his face. He jumped slightly when a mysterious figure in a black coat slipped its hand into his.

"Anderson and the fanclub been by again?" inquired Mary Morstan.

John sighed. "It would appear so."

"Are you okay, bby?' she asked, looking concerned.

"Yes, my little sock monkey. I'm fine, I really am…" he lied.

Mary furrowed her brow. "You washing your friends grave with tears and then 'platonically' polishing it with your mournstache would suggest otherwise."

"It's not a mournstache!" exclaimed John. "His name is Harold."

"Okay, darling, whatever you say."

"I'm not gay," the blogger muttered, while somewhere in the time vortex River Song reminded everyone what rule number one was.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," he said quickly.

/

Sherlock burst dramatically into his big brother's office.

"#Notdead!" he exclaimed.

"Omc shut up Sherlock," groaned Mycroft. "I'm trying to read a fanfic!"

"Um, Mycroft?" Sherlock frowned. He had been expecting a more dramatic reaction than this. "It's me. Sherlock. Y'know, the only consulting detective in the world? Hero of the Reichenbach, savior of John Watson…voted Best Cumberbatch Look-alike four years in a row…?"

Mycroft's head jerked up, momentarily distracted from the Mystrade nc-17 fic he had been previously engaged in.

"Omc!" he cried. "#SherlockLives!"

"Um, yes?"

Mycroft leapt over his desk with surprising ease (Sherlock suspected that large amounts of angel food cake had granted him the power of flight) and pulled his lil bro into a tight hug.

"Where the Niflheim have you been for the past two years?" demanded the British government.

"Oh, y'know, here and there," the detective said vaguely. "Bit of time-travel, bit of hoarding, bit of everything, really."

"So you faked your own death?"

"Yes, obviously."

"And then you stayed away for two years without telling anyone?"

"Err...yes?" Under his brother's glare, Sherlock broke down. "Okay, okay, I got lost without my blogger!"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, no one's heard from you and ages and you just decide to randomly show up? All we've had to remember you by is John's web-diary and Anderson's poorly-written smut!fics."

"That doesn't matter," said Sherlock, waving his hand dismissively. The point is that I'm #Reichenback and that you can all continue to be in awe of me once more. Speaking of which, where's the love of my life?"

"You mean the skull?"

"No, Mycroft, I mean John."

"Oh!" Mycroft fidgeted, then pulled several binders out of nowhere. Sherlock flipped through them, smiling to himself, until he came to the most recent picture.

"What the Niflheim is that?!" he demanded, jabbing his finger at the photograph.

"A mournstache. He calls it Harold."

"Yes, well, we'll have to get rid of that."

"We?"

"Yes. He looks totes old. I thought I could trust him to stay all hedgehog-ish and pretty." Sherlock slammed the binder shut. "I'm thinking I'll surprise John. Pop over to Baker Street, jump out of a…" he hesitated, noticing the hungry gleam in his brother's eyes, "…casserole or something."

"Baker Street?" scoffed Mycroft. "Sherlock you uncultured swine, he don't live there no more. It's been two years, he's moved on—" He stopped abruptly, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"I'm thinking that I may just get the 221D," the detective mused.

"Um, Sherlock—"

"I may propose. I've got a ring picked out on Etsy and everything."

"Sher—"

"What do you think, Mycroft? Would you mind being the flower girl?"

"Sherlock!" said the British government. "I don't think that's going to work."

The detective frowned. "And why is that?"

Mycroft fidgeted again. "Sherly, he's…heterosexual."

Sherlock stared at him for several moments, then burst out laughing.

"Oh, Mycroft, you've always been a terrible liar! Don't tell jokes, brother dear, it doesn't suit you." He clapped Mycroft on the shoulder and stood up, making for the door. He turned around suddenly, smirking.

"Mycroft, John Watson is so gay that he practically fills all four of the thrones in Cair Paravel. Nothing can possibly go wrong."

With that, the younger man turned and swaggered out of the office. Mycroft sighed and sat down behind his desk once more, steepling his hands in a very Holmes-ish fashion.

"Perhaps," he said to himself. "One day my poor brother will develop a sense of modesty."


	3. Chapter Two: Decorating

CHAPTER TWO

Sherlock waltzed into the restaurant confidently. Through his brother's network of spies, he had managed to find out that John had reservations to be there in one hour. He had noted that the reservation was for two, but he wasn't concerned. He was John's life, so it was clear that his bestie would be happy to shove aside whatever numbskull female he'd brought along with him this time (if Sherlock's calculations were correct and John had been dating at the same rate for the past two years, this would be his 208th girlfriend).

"Um, sir?" said a nervous looking man in a suit, "I'm afraid that weapons are not allowed in the restaurant.

Sherlock frowned, feigning confusion. "Sorry?"

"Your cheekbones, sir. They could hurt someone."

Just as his phone went off, the clever detective made a deduction that the man was an expectant father.

"Um, bro?" said Sherlock. "Your wife's about to pop that kid out."

"Oh, really?" exclaimed the man. "Well, given that you're a total stranger and I'm genuinely frightened that you even knew my wife was pregnant, I'll take your word for it!" He quickly bustled outside.

Smirking, Sherlock sauntered forward.

/

John was sulking. He sat on the far edge of his seat, slumped against the window of the cab, glaring out at the passing streets. Mary sat on the other side of the seat, also looking frustrated.

"John," she said cautiously. "If we're going to get married, we need to learn to negotiate in situations like this."

"I wanted to go to the Krusty Krab," growled John.

"I know, love, and I'm sorry," said Mary. "But this is our one-year dating anniversary, and you know how important that is! I felt like we should honor the occasion by going somewhere special."

"The Krusty Krab," John informed her, "is the most magical, fun, beautiful place there is."

"Yes, sweetie, I'm sorry," said Mary earnestly. "But you got to pick last time, and this time I'm picking the restaurant."

John huffed, causing his mournstache to flutter like a trapped bird, and resumed glaring out the window. Mary frowned and leaned back into her seat, closing her eyes.

/

The kitchens were a mess. No one noticed him as he wove his way through it, dodging plates and random flying objects including, but not limited to, the following:

1.) Smeagol and the One Ring.

2.) A highlighter.

3.) A flaming carrot of doom.

4.) Several small mammals.

5.) Chuck Norris.

The idiocy of others would never cease to amaze him.

Despite what he had told Mycroft, Sherlock had no intention of hiding in a casserole. If the detective was going to announce that he was alive after two years, he was going to do it in style.

He found the cake near the back of the room. After casting "Stun" on the decorater, he grabbed a tube of frosting and began to inscribe a message.

"Excuse me?" said a voice from behind him. "Who are you?"

Sherlock turned to see a man in a fedora frowning at him.

"I'm the cake decorater," said the detective, shoving the inanimate body beside him away with his foot.

"Oh, okay!" said Fedora. "Well, I'm supposed to be in that cake, sooo…"

"STUPEFY!" cried Sherlock, squeezing a jet of pink frosting at the man. Fedora fell back, hit his head on the Mona Lisa, and lost consciousness.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock burrowed into the side of the cake to wait for the time to reveal himself.

/

John stared glumly at his menu.

"Psst," whispered Harold. "You should get the casserole."

"Shut up, Harold, I don't want the casserole."

Mary looked at him from over her own menu. "John, you really should shave that thing off."

"Don't hate me cause you ain't me," the mournstache told her.

John sighed. "Harold, be quiet for a moment." Reaching across the table, he took Mary's hand in his. "I'm sorry for how I've been acting today."

Mary smiled. "Thank you, John."

"No, I mean it," said the blogger. "I'm glad to have you. It's been two years since Sherlock died, and my life is finally back on track." He squeezed her hand. "I have my whole life ahead of me, and I get to spend it with you. What could possibly go wrong?"


	4. Chapter Three: Hashtag Not Dead

CHAPTER THREE

Approximately half an hour later, something did, indeed, go wrong.

"Did we order a cake?" asked John, his mournstache quivering slightly.

"No," said Mary, staring curiously at the pink monstrosity being pushed towards them.

The cake was huge—easily six feet tall, big enough to fit in at least one recently not-deceased consulting detective. That, however, was not the strange part. What really grabbed John's attention were the messages written on the sides in white icing.

#Reichenback

#NotDead

#LoveMeJawn

"What is this?" John demanded.

The amused looking waiter shrugged. "I was told to bring it to your table."

Suddenly, the cake began to shake violently. The waiter stumbled back, eyes wide, and Mary let out a little gasp. The hairs above John's mouth stood straight up as if trying to make themselves look fierce. The top layer of the cake suddenly exploded outward, spraying everyone nearby in light pink frosting. A dark, curly head poked out of it.

"Hello, John!"

John stared in shock. No…it couldn't be…

"Sh-Sherlock?" he stammered. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Of course!" Sherlock clambered out of the cake and fell forward onto the table, which would have caused John to scream 'Sherlock!11!1!' had he not been in shock.

Sherlock sat up, grinning at John.

"But—but you're—" John fumbled for words. "You—"

"Oh, John," said Sherlock, pulling the flabbergasted blogger close to him so that their cheeks were pressed together. "Surely you know me by now—death cannot keep me from you, my sweet hedgehog."

Sherlock's cheekbone was digging uncomfortably into John's face. The ex-army doctor pulled away and, unsure of what else to do, punched Sherlock in the face.

The detective toppled backwards. John stood up and grabbed him by the ear, hauling him to his feet.

"Ow! John!"

John paid him no heed and began dragging him towards the door. When they were safely outside the restaurant, he released Sherlock and spoke in the calmest tone he could muster.

"TWO [fishfinger]ING YEARS, SHERLOCK!1! WHAT THE [fedora] WERE YOU EVEN THINKING?1!1 THAT YOU COULD JUST [Cornelius Fudge]ING SHOW UP AND CRAWL BACK INTO MY [ethnic food]ING LIFE?11?!1"

The detective winced. "You sound like that Martin Freeman guy."

"WHERE WERE YOU?!11" shouted John, who had become quite red in the face.

"I got lost without my blogger," Sherlock admitted. Then he leaned close to John, peering at his upper lip. "You seem to have a small mammal clinging to your face."

John punched him again.

"TWO YEARS!1!" he bellowed. "TWO YEARS…AND A GRIEFSTACHE!11!1!"

"Looks more like a mournstache to me," said Sherlock.

"Shut up," advised Harold.

"Did you miss me at all?" asked Sherlock, ignoring the annoying bit of facial hair.

"Of course I did," said John, facepalming. "Every day. Sherlock, I was so griefstricken that I turned straight!"

"You…what?!11!?" spluttered Sherlock.

"You were the only man I could ever love!" John shouted. "So I became heterosexual!"

Sherlock stared at him in amazement. He'd had no idea that his faked suicide had caused his friend this much pain.

"And now you come back!" continued John. "All mysterious with your coat collar and cheekbones and pink frosting, and you expect me to just take you back?!"

"Oh, John, but don't you miss it?" asked Sherlock, his hallucinogenic-colored eyes boring into John's. "The thrill of the gay, the blood pounding in your…um." Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Anyways, it was just the two of us against the rest of the world. Remember that, bby?"

John shook his head. "Your charms do not work on me anymore. I'm straight not, Sherlock, and I'm getting married! To Mary!"

Sherlock's jaw became acquainted with the ground.

Just then, Mary came out of the restaurant. "John, honey you okay?" She smiled at Sherlock. "And you must be the legendary Mr. Holmes! John's mentioned you…and written essays on you…and described you vividly in his web-diary…"

"Blog!" John snapped.

Mary ignored him. "He never mentioned that your cheekbones were so sharp!"

"Yes I did!" exclaimed John. "I told you on our first date, remember?"

"Oh, yes," said Mary, smiling fondly. "That time we looked through your photo albums of you and Sherlock, correct?"

John groaned. "We're going home," he said, grabbing her arm. He shot a glare at Sherlock, whose expression was as pained as that of someone who had just been run over by the Knight Bus about a block away.

"But—Jawn…" he said. "I thought what we had was special!"

"It was, Sherlock," said the blogger, sighing. "But things have changed."


	5. Chapter Four: Back to Baker Street

**So this chapter is a bit of a filler. Thanks to those who reviewed! The plot will be picking up next chapter.**

CHAPTER FOUR

Baker Street was quiet, just as it had been for nearly two years now. Mrs. Hudson stood in the kitchen of her own flat, washing dishes and humming the tune of Misty Mountains Cold.

A sound at the door caused her to turn. A detective-shaped silhouette appeared behind the frosted glass.

"Hello? Who is that?" called the landlady-not-housekeeper.

The silhouette placed a hand on the glass. Mrs. Hudson felt her heartbeat quicken. She slowly approached the door, gripping the handle of the slightly soapy pot she was carrying.

"Reveal yourself!" she called.

The door slowly swung open to reveal…

"AAAAAAAH!" screamed Mrs. Hudson in a fashion reminiscent of a fangirl watching TRF, and proceeded to attack the man with the pot. "AAH! AHH! ASDFGHJKL;!11!1!"

"Ouch!" cried Sherlock, attempting to shield his face. "Mrs. Hudson—"

"MRS. TURNER! GET THE SALT!" screamed the woman, but her neighbor was too busy jamming to Elvis to hear her.

"Mrs. Hudson! It's me!" said Sherlock, catching her wrists in both hands. Mrs. Hudson dropped the pan and it clunked down onto Sherlock's noggin. His kaleidoscope-y eyes rolled into the back of his head and he crumpled to the floor.

Mrs. Hudson leaned against the wall, catching her breath. Once she was feeling slightly more collected, she straightened and took a hesitant step forward. She prodded the figure on the floor with her foot. It groaned and muttered something about a hedgehog.

Suddenly, something caught her eye. Mrs. Hudson crouched next to the figure and attempted to get a better look at his face. Her hand cut on something sharp, and she suddenly knew who it was.

Only one man in the entire history of London had ever had cheekbones that sharp.

"Sherlock?" she gasped.

/

John lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Mary was curled up at his side, fast asleep, but John was wide awake. As he listened to his fiancé's breathing, he suddenly realized something.

"Harold?" he whispered. "Harold, wake up."

"What is it?" murmured the mournstache, fluttering in agitation.

"My gay tendencies…I think they're coming back."

"What do you mean?" inquired Harold.

"I can't stop thinking about Sherlock."

The mournstache emitted its equivalent of a sigh. "John," it said. "We've gone over this."

"Yeah, but—"

"You're heterosexual now. You're engaged. So you cannot let any quick-witted, devilishly charming, bright-eyed—"

"Harold?"

"Yes?"

"You're not really helping,"

The mournstache huffed. "Fine," it growled. "I'll just go back to bed then."

"Fine by me," hissed John. He continued to glare at the ceiling until he finally drifted off.

His dreams were plagued by detectives in trench coats.

/

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson sat at her kitchen table, an untouched mug of tea in front of each of them. Sherlock held an icepack to his head and Mrs. Hudson continued to clutch the handle of the pot."

"…and that's how I faked my own death," finished the detective.

The landlady-not-housekeeper stared at him in awe. "You-?"

"Yes."

"And then-?"

"Indeed."

"Wow." Mrs. Hudson picked up her tea and took a sip.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "I agree. I am very impressive."

"But for two years?" She frowned. "What took you so long?"

"I got lost without my blogger."

"Yes, but where did you go?"

He hesitated. "Well…those are stories for another time."

"Alright," she relented. "But you will have to tell me sooner or later." She paused. "And John was really that angry?"

"He told me he'd turned straight."

Mrs. Hudson gasped and placed a hand over her mouth. "Oh, dear…I'm so sorry." She shook her head. "I was sure that Mary was just a friend."

"I checked his blog. She puts X's after everything."

"Yes, I'm not sure what exactly they mean."

"Nor do I," admitted Sherlock. "But they appear to be sinister. I will consult my mind palace later to discover their meaning."

"What are you going to do now, though?" she asked.

"I was hoping that I could move back into 221B."

Mrs. H fidgeted.

"No more sword marks in the furniture, I promise."

"Well, alright then," she said, pinching his cheek. "But what about John?"

"Oh, don't worry," said the detective, smirking in that ovary-destroying sort of way. "I have a plan."


	6. Chapter Five: The Sherlockians

CHAPTER FIVE

The next day found Sharqueesha Anderson where he usually was on Saturday mornings—standing in an empty room surrounded by the members of the fan club that he had formed.

"Right, hello everyone, today is cosplay and fanfiction day! Who wore a cosplay?"

"Ooh! I did!" shouted a pimply youth wearing a deerstalker and what looked like his mother's scarf.

"Oh, good job Calvin!" said Anderson, handing the cosplayer a 'fun-sized' Snickers bar. "Anyone else? No. Okay."

"Does it have to be our own fanfiction that we brought in?" asked a girl with a nose ring.

"Why no, Lafonda, it certainly does not," said Anderson reassuringly. "It just has to be one that you really like."

"Is smut allowed?" asked Calvin.

"Yes, Calvin," said the entire group wearily.

"Okay, good. I brought in a great one."

"What did you bring in this week, Sharqueesha?" asked a man with short brown hair and a hooked nose.

"My newest project!" replied Anderson proudly. "This one's Johnlock."

"Ooh," said all of the members of the fan club, looking impressed.

"Hey, Sharqueesha?" said a woman with spiky blond hair. "How long are we going to keep doing this?"

"What do you mean, Clara?"

"This whole…club thing. I mean, your essay on '101 Reichentheories' was great and all, but it's been two years. If Sherlock Holmes was really alive, wouldn't he be back by now?"

"Yeah!" said Calvin.

"Yeah!" echoed the group.

Anderson's jaw fell open so wide that his newly-grown beard brushed the ground. "I am ashamed of you all!" he cried. "Don't any of you remember why we're all here in the first place?"

"Oh, great," muttered Clara. "Here he goes again."

Anderson pulled up a small stool and clambered on top of it so that he stood high above the others. He cleared his throat and began to sing to the tune of Peter Pan's 'You Can Fly.'

_Think of the fics you've read  
Of Holmes and Watson in bed  
Think of Tumblr, think of blogs  
Not how Sherlock popped his clogs  
Or fell out of the the sky!  
He didn't die! Didn't die! Didn't die!  
Soon you'll come up with new theories  
of which Sherlockians never grow weary!  
But the thing that's a positive must  
Is a little bit of hope and trust!  
(The hope is a positive must!)  
He didn't die! Didn't die! Didn't die!  
When there's a smile in your heart  
There's no better time to start  
It's a very simple goal  
To prove his grave's never been full  
At least it's worth a try!  
He didn't die! Didn't die! Didn't die!_

"Are you quite done?" asked Clara.

"Yeah, just about." Anderson discarded the stool. "Don't you all see? All we have to do is believe!"

Suddenly, everyone's phone went off at once. Lafonda was the first to pull hers out. She looked up, a shocked sort of grin on her face.

"Oh. My. Gawd!" she said.

The words #SherlockLives, #NotDead, and #ReichenBack began to float around the room. Calvin clutched at his head.

"I'm never doing drugs again!" he groaned.

Suddenly the door swung open to reveal the great detective himself.

"ASDFGHJKL;" said the fan club.

"Anderson," said Sherlock, oblivious to their reactions. "Lovely song, who wrote it for you?"

"Um—I did, actually," said Anderson, his eyes wide.

"Impressive," said Sherlock. He looked around. "So these must be the Sherlockians."

"Yes!" said Anderson. "I'm the one who came up with the name."

"How…lovely." Sherlock blinked. "I liked the fanfics, by the way."

"Which one?"

"Oh, all of them. Especially 'Innuendo Cluedo.' Disgustingly creative."

"Asdfghjkl;" stammered Anderson.

"Anyways," said the detective. "I need you to move in with me."

"What?!1!"

"You heard me. You know the address. Be there at…ten tomorrow morning, maybe?"

"I—"

"Yes, ten would give you plenty of time. I'll see you then."

He made for the door, but Calvin jumped in his way.

"Mr. Holmes, will you sign my deerstalker?"

Sherlock stared at the hat for a moment, grabbed it, jammed it onto his head, and left.

Sharqueesha Anderson promptly passed out.


End file.
